Yep. That’s right. Lazy.

He said that I have the tendency to make simple, small tasks bigger than they are. Of course I asked, “Like what??” and sadly, I could not successfully refute his examples. Yes, I hate brushing my teeth and everything related to getting ready for bed. Yes, I hate having to get up to fish through my purse for my credit card while the Delivery.com site is already on the checkout page. These are all true. But, to CP’s point, this is not what makes me lazy.

What makes me lazy is that I procrastinate so much that when I finally have to do these tasks, it makes them seem so much bigger. When I’m tired, the last thing I want to do is brush, floss, and wash my face. When I’m starving, the last thing I want is to be seconds away from clicking the “order” button, then having to delay my order by having to waste time looking for my credit card. Simple solutions such as getting ready for bed earlier would prevent me from getting cranky as I get ready for bed, and perhaps grabbing my wallet before I sit down to order would also lessen the cranky factor.

Friends, you never really realize how unique your own habits are until move in with someone who loves you enough, to be curious enough, to ask you why you do the things you do. The past six months have been a crash course in each other’s routines. My “lazy” ways of going about life are how I’ve been doing it for years (because I’ve never really dissected my own behavior before) and it will take some time for me to amend them. I mean, why would you ever analyze how long it takes you to get ready for bed?

Since living with CP, we’ve had many of these conversations, one of which happened this morning.

From the outside, it would appear that this was the morning that I woke up with a horrible headache, and took some Advil. But, in the reality of this little apartment, taking the Advil was only the final resolution after a long list of events in the ongoing saga known as, “the weird goings-on of Emily.”

Last night, I went to bed with a slight headache. This morning, at 3 am, I awoke with a slightly worse headache. Cursing myself for my perpetual forgetfulness to drink liquids other than coffee and/or alcohol, I downed the glass of water next to my bed.

Cut to 4:30 am, and intense head pain radiated from the right side of my head. And so my weird behavior commences. I don’t know about you, but when I’m in pain, I don’t want to move, which, I think is understandable. But, instead of just sucking it up to get up and take some Advil, I convince myself that any tiny adjustments I make will miraculously alleviate the pain. Personally, I always believe that the act of visualizing the blood vessel under stress will somehow relieve the headache, and when that fails, I tend to try out changes in temperature, such as switching which cheek is on the pillow, or lifting my leg out from underneath the comforter. When this inevitably fails, I try to cry, since I found that the tingly sensation of creating tears alleviates a headache for about two seconds.

When that also inevitably fails, I try CP’s pillow trick—where you turn on your side, place one pillow over your head, drape your free arm across the pillow to add some pressure, and then NOT MOVING for several hours. (I must say this trick really works wonders, but only after you have introduced some sort of pain killer into your system.)

Of course, the worse part about this all is that all the while I’m coming up with “remedies,” my brain keeps interrupting every so often to say, “You know, if you had actually gotten up to take the Advil, your head would probably feel a lot better by now.”

A few hours later, while moving even slower than molasses on not much quality sleep, CP asked me what was wrong. After giving him the play-by-play of events, he asked, “Why didn’t you just take something before you went to sleep?”

…

CP, that’s because that would be the logical thing to do, and as we’ve come to realize, the unreasonable, like the little piles of clothes I leave around our bedroom, is a bad habit I may have to break.

Stranded in Astoria.via Gothamist.com

Well everyone, needless to say, it’s been quite the week. Not only did many of us experience our first earthquake, but also, the suspense and anticipation of one of the greater natural disasters to hit NYC in over 20 years.

Now, I’ve had anxiety dreams before—in particular, finding myself in my high school French class realizing that forgot to prepare for a presentation that counts for 90% of my grade—but I’ve never had anxiety dreams about waking up in my apartment to find things like Clint’s guitars treading water, next to Janice Huff and Chuck Scarborough. (The 12+ hours of hurricane coverage Clint and I have watched on tv may be to blame.)

At the heart of it, I don’t think my anxiety is unwarranted. There was a lot to learn this week about survival, and the fact that I don’t know much about it.

Clearly, I’m not alone in this, seeing how Gothamist began one of its posts after the earthquake:

New York just had itself an earthquake—the first one that many New Yorkers have ever felt—and you know what we learned? Most of us aren’t exactly sure what the hell to do in an earthquake.

After feeling the tremor, not only was my first instinct to smile at my coworkers while silently freaking out, but Friday night, while on our way to stock up on necessities for the approaching hurricane, again, I felt paralyzed by my sheer lack of experience when dealing with potential natural disasters. It may have also been a reaction to watching people waiting in lines that lapped around empty shelves, but I don’t think it’s good that my initial response was more like, Do I have to?? rather than strategizing. Clint, more level headed in times like these, helped steer me toward the canned goods aisles.

By the end of the day, our kitchen was stocked with the following:

Two packs of Goldfish crackers

One sleeve of Pringles

Two large bags of Tostitos tortilla chips and salse (hot and mild)

Three cans of beans

Six cans of Bumblebee solid white tuna

Two bottles of Classico tomato sauce

One jar of extra chunky Skippy peanut butter

One loaf of white bread (we found and scavenged it)

One bag of Twizzlers

One case of Poland Spring water

Two 12 packs of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale

One six-pack of Victory Hop Devil IPA

As I was closing the cabinet above our stove, reflecting back on our hurricane survival kit (of sorts), I experienced massive déjà vu. All of a sudden, I was back in fall 2002, lounging on the blue bean bag chair in my freshroom dorm, taking a moment after stocking the shelves above my bed.

Now, nine years later, even though won’t find Easy Mac, labels of most of the same processed goods stared back at me, and I experienced a slight epiphany—I do have survival skills! Little did I know that the same skills I acquired while living on my own for the first time would guide me through a natural disaster. Not only did peanut butter and Twizzlers aide me through all-nighters after the dining hall had already closed, but they still serve as life-savers while I wade through the confusion of what to do in an emergency situations.

There’s been a lot of learning this weekend. Learning about how to prepare correctly for an emergency…learning how sometimes, there are times when I have to wait on a long line…learning how Clint has a lot more common sense than me…and learning that if I just take a moment and give myself some credit, I know more than I think I know.

Hello. My name is Emily, and I am a bad blogger.

There. I’ve said it. They say the first step to moving on is acceptance. Check. I’m not quite sure of the other steps, but all I know is that I’m throwing my hat back into the ring, grabbing the bull by the horns, tossing out any euphemism for staring over, and returning to my blog.

If you are reading this, I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. But, as you are about to read, a few things have been going on in the past few months that have been the cause of a lot of celebration.

I GOT A NEW JOB.

Bye-bye journalism, hello advertising. Ladies and gentleman, I’ve entered a new career, and a new industry to boot. I’ve never been so excited for a challenge, and so tired by the end of the workweek that weekends have new meaning to me. I also now understand how my fellow copywriter friend told me that sometimes she doesn’t have time to pee. Sometimes, you just don’t.

I’M NO LONGER A HOBOKENITE.

Yes, the rumors are true. After almost four years, I have fled the Mile-Square town for a new adventure–QUEENS. More specifically, Astoria. That’s crossing two rivers. Two rivers, about five times during moving day, in a U Haul cargo van. My family is amazing to have helped me for the gazillionth time moving since freshman year in college. True rock stars.

SPEAKING OF ROCK STARS, I NOW LIVE WITH A BOY (WHO’S IN A BAND AND OWNS A LOT OF GUITARS)

Maria, my former roommate, now just a good friend who lives in Manhattan, asked me the other day if CP drinks beer for breakfast and if he farts a lot. All I can say is, I’ve never felt so happy to be in one place. And…I’ll keep you posted.

Stay tuned…more updates to come…including: sneak peak of the new place…

Anyway…as I’ve said, I’ve been working on updates, including the header image, and the background, and also, I’ve been organizing my posts into categories.

So tedious that it almost killed me (I’m notorious for collecting up to 500 or more inbox messages before purging), I’m almost done. But, when I went to check what exactly was in my “frugal fitness” category, two posts that I expected to be in there were not! (Plus a Pop Tart recipe post that I did not expect to find in there.)

The following is a post that should be in this category. This column was originally printed in August ’09.

Still Working It Out

You must forgive me for what I am about to quote, but as a single, 25 year-old, independent female, it would be a bold-faced lie to say that I never reference Sex and the City.

In one particular episode, as Carrie Bradshaw is whining about being lonely, (I still love you Carrie) she says that in New York, as a woman, you can have a great job, a great apartment and a great man, but never all at the same time. Apparently, it’s always two out of three, and even if the two you’ve got are top-notch, the missing third will still make you want to hyperventilate in a Duane Reade bag.

Though she has a valid point, having just celebrated my second year as a Hoboken resident, I would have to disagree. In this day in age, at least in the 07030 zip code, there is a very much a fourth:  the gym in which you work out.

After having been jilted by the now defunct Empire Fitness on 6th St. and Washington a year ago after they closed abruptly, allegedly for some shady business with the IRS, I was soured on gym practices. Left without a house of exercise, in the winter and spring of 2009, I did some “sole” searching in jogs and walks around town, a few downloadable yoga classes off websites and iTunes, and routine plays of my Jackie Warner (of Bravo TV’s “Work Out” reality show fame) sculpting DVD.

It wasn’t until my friend Rachael and I were discussing where the summer went and she said, “Jeez, between work, travel, and getting into spin [class], I feel like the weeks have just sped by,” that I suddenly felt the need to come clean with a fact that I am really quite an anomaly in Hoboken, because I do not have a gym membership card on my keyring.

It’s really no wonder why I feel the pressure—we are a town obsessed with fitness. No matter what time of the day, you will see a Hobokenite in cross-trainers and exercise gear. Get off the PATH after 5 PM, and there’s a steady stream to the NYSC downtown. Want to find a yoga studio? Just hop on the trail of the dozens of yogis running around town with their mats strapped to their back. Between my roommates who go to Sky Club and Club H, there are a million “free passes” on our fridge, taunting me to try classes like Zumba and RPM.

Carrie Bradshaw had an easy out. She said shopping was her cardio (and you are really going to have to forgive me for being able to quote that.) As for me, only time will tell if I can continue with my quest for fitness outside the box, or if I will succumb to peer pressure. But, the way I see it, as long as I can find ways to stress about my job, apartment, or love life, I won’t have to stress about the way I workout, and I can once again be a happy-go-lucky resident of Hoboken.

After a night of reflection, we’ve come to the following realization:

M: i lose my banana (republic) winter hat

All throughout my life, I felt like I have a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde syndrome. Though I’m ultimately an eternal optimist, (one of my favorite phrases is, “it’ll all work out”) I have this side of me that can be a little…intense.

Not in a scary way. I don’t yell with rage when I’m waiting on a line for a long time (I just secretly grind my teeth) but when it comes to things in life that I care about—my career and my relationships, I’m always pondering how to be the best I can be. And, sometimes I think about these things on the way to buy milk at A&P, and definitely on the PATH on the way and from work. Clint has on more than one occasion said to me during one of these sessions, “Such a serious face! What are you thinking about?”

This is where the problem lies—sometimes I just make a serious face when I’m thinking about silly things, like cute puppies. Another phrase I heard growing up was, “Smile, Emily! Why don’t you smile?” Now, this phrase really bugged me, because if I am in the middle of a thought, why would I smile without any reason? I suppose that even though I’m an optimist, I’m not always Mary Sunshine, and that’s ok—I’ve made peace with that.

However, I feel that I’m immediately drawn to people with sunny dispositions—people that always have a hint of a smile in the crook of their mouths, even on a day like today when it’s half raining/half sleeting, and then you realize you have a hole in your rain boot on the way to work.

Last Saturday night, on the way home from KC’s German-themed dinner party in Jersey City, I met one of the sunniest people–he could have walked right out of one of those Jimmy Dean breakfast commercials, dressed up as the sun who has a tummy full of goodness. As a conductor of the late trains, normally on the Newark line, this was the first time I’ve seen him on the PATH—but also, I’m not normally on the PATH at 3:30ish am. Naturally, I wasn’t too happy, even after a great night. It was late, and I just wanted to get home.

This conductor had one of those personalities I wish I could bottle up and sip like coffee in the mornings. So genuinely friendly, he struck up a conversation about a common interest—cupcakes, since I held a cupcake carrier in my lap. Seven, made-from-scratch German Chocolate cupcakes are a great conversation starter, if you were ever curious.

I gave this conductor one, and it made his night, and then mine. Not only did he help the time go by, which was greatly appreciated at that time in the morning, but then he also thanked me for the cupcake, into the PA system when I finally reached my destination.

To this conductor, I would like to say that although my night had already been a fun one, unexpected interactions like these was truly the icing on the cake for that evening.

courtesy of keyinherpocket on Flickr

Ever since the blizzard a few weeks back, the streets of Hoboken have still been a little messy.

It’s not the town’s fault—it’s only a matter of time before the purely white snow turns to mucky brown and gray sidewalk hurdles, and keepers of curbs.

There’s another natural phenomenon that tends to litter the sidewalks along with the salt as soon as winter arrives. I’ve found them on the steps of the PATH station, the intersection of Washington and Second St., even in the doorway of CVS.

I’ve discovered some red ones, black ones, and white with polka dots. Some are woolen, and some leather. Have you seen them too?

I’m speaking of the occurrence of single mittens and gloves and hats (oh my!).

Over the past few weeks, especially after 20 something inches of snow, I’ve come across many a single glove. And, every time I come across one in my travels—it has to be one of the saddest sites.

My hands feel chapped just looking at them. All I can think about is how their poor owner is probably searching through her handbag, saying over and over…I just had it! I seriously just put it back in my bag…where…where??

Maybe I’m so sensitive about it since it’s happened to me many times. It even almost happened to me the other day. There I was, taking off my wool, insulated, cozy glove to take out my Smartlink card, and before I knew it, I’m standing in front of a train, staring at my other hand—which was supposed to have my other glove in its grasp.

I also then made another discovery. I answered my lingering question as to how there are so many lost gloves—it’s because you can’t ever feel anything when you’re wearing gloves. I had pinched the glove I took off in between my thumb and pointed finger, but no matter.

As I stood there, in disbelief that I yet again lost another glove, while trying so hard to piece together the puzzle before any coffee that morning, a good and decent citizen of Hoboken walked over to me, and told me I dropped this—my glove.

Do you see what we all need? If everyone had someone like this, a little guardian glove angel to let you know when you’ve dropped a mitten, not only would the world be a better place, but also, the streets wouldn’t be so littered with woolen orphans.

Town resolution for 2011, perhaps?

It’s delicious. I don’t know if I’d go out of my way to buy more of it, since I’m not a big apple juice drinker, but the free factor is greatly appreciated with perfect timing since I have no breakfast today.

So–it does not amaze me that I can quote the site, What White People Like, almost two years after its 15 minutes of fame (and a book deal).

This reference refers to #72: Study Abroad:

“By attending school in another country, white people are technically living in another country.  This is important as it gives them the opportunity to insert that fact into any sentence they please. ‘When I used to live in [insert country], I would always ride the train to school.  The people I’d see were inspiring.’”

Case in point: my new Gelaskins iPod cover, for my NEW iPod (thanks CP), which now gives me the opportunity to insert the fact that I too, studied abroad, and like to refer to it as much as I see fit.

This British WWII poster design, resurrected by interior designers in 2009, allows me to wear my heart for the UK on my iPod sleeve, which reminds me of when used to live in Bath, England for a semester, which was clearly very inspiring.

I’m a little too excited.

The urge to domesticate can strike when you least expect it. Last Tuesday, all Maria and I could think about were chocolate chip pumpkin muffins, and banana tahini bread.

We are not bakers. I cook once or twice a week; Maria is famous for her assembling practices, namely, crackers and cheese. She also does not understand how I never get sick of eating hard boiled eggs at 8 am. But, we pushed our differences aside to make room for a night of baking. Good thing too, because we don’t have a ton of counter space.

About two hours later, including an extra run to a bodega at 10:15 pm when I realized that I bought pumpkin pie filling instead of real pumpkin (d’oh), the discovery that Maria was actually following a vegan recipe, Rach’s realization that all-spice actually exists, and a sink full of dishes, our doughnut-shaped apartment was filled with the scent of thirty-two muffins, and one square loaf of banana bread, with a corner missing. (We had to sample.)

It was a good Tuesday.